The greatest kept secret
by magical realism
Summary: Katie just needs something from her girlfriend, because her love is slipping away.


"I've tried... everything." You whisper, brokenly. You're glad she can't see your face. You watch her outline as she nods, comprehending. Or at least trying to. You hear rustling and your heart drops, spiking your adrenaline. She can't be leaving, not now.

She isn't. She's lighting a cigarette, the edges of it coated in an orange glow.

"You really don't have to explain, K." She snaps, you can tell she's pursing her lips.

"But I have to apologize." You retort, biting your lip.

"Apology heard." She drawls, rolling over onto her back in bed, the curve of her back arching. "If we're over, we're over." Her face is finally visible through a slit of moonlight, pouring in from the open window in your apartment.

"Don't say it like that!" You choke out. It's silent for a beat while you study her stoic face.

"You said it first." She blinks heavily, trying to settle into sleep. You'll be damned if she does.

"I wanna... I wanna play soccer again, Bianca. Really, really fucking play it. I wanna write. Stories about real people. I wanna live in some little English town or something." You slide the cigarette out from between her fingers and take a long drag. You exhale in rings and watch her watch you.

"Isn't it called football in England, or something?" Bianca moans as she rolls around again, exposing her bare chest. She is the most beautiful women you've ever seen. You try to distract yourself by pulling open the blinds, letting New York inside your safe haven. Bianca mutters a string of profanity.

"Since you're breaking up with me to write little stories, could maybe at least let me get some damned sleep?" She barks, pulling a rose-printed pillow towards her. Anger puffs proudly inside you. Because, this, _this _is why. You didn't even want to end it. You just needed a reaction, any reaction. But you wanted tears and rage and thrown objects and makeup sex. Not the same passive aggressive bull.

"Don't be a bitch." You huff. She literally bites her tongue so hard she cuts it with her teeth. Your eyes are so adjusted to the light that you can see her taste-buds. Bianca raises her hand in protest. She smacks the sheets instead of hitting you. You wish she had.

"I'm sorry, did I dump _you _while fucking _you_?" She tags a bitter laugh on the end. You lean back on your headboard and glance at your TV, staring at the little red 'on' button until it blurs to a smudge. Bianca sighs a little, which usually means she listening to the traffic again. You study her, in a softer light than usual.

She was born for New York. Bianca looked stiff anywhere that wasn't a tiny, one bedroom apartment. She loved subway cars and seedy bars and even traffic. She loved the blisters her feet got after a long day at the dance studio, blood rushing to her cheeks and endorphins. She fucking loved endorphins.

She didn't love you.

She didn't love looking at you drearily as you both drift to sleep. She didn't love surprising you at school. She didn't love trips back up to Toronto at Christmas. She didn't love kissing or spooning or even fucking.

But what could you love at twenty?

Hell, by the time you're five you're absolutely sure of what you hate. Maybe fifteen years to fall in love isn't enough time. Or maybe it's too much. There were too many nights in. Too many bitter fears about exactly _why_ you're not invited to girls night out. Too many random gifts in the middle of the week.

"Thank you! Call me a bitch again! Kick me, hit me! Throw my shit out the window!" You shout. Her eyes meet yours. You know you look deranged, sitting on the edge of the bed. Yelling and squeaking the springs.

"Do _something._" You whisper, desperately. You steal a glance at her. She looks... hazy. You can see her slipping away. And all you can think about is grabbing and throttling her. You scrape fingers through your hair.

A runny tear slips out of her brown eyes, making a jagged path down her smooth cheek and dripping off of her chin.

"B..." You edge out thickly.

"Don't." She cuts you off, turning away. Bianca gathers up her hair and twirls it into a bun. "I loved you, Katie. Don't treat me like this." You tenderly touch her shoulder, your fingers shaking slightly. She flinches on contact but forces herself to keep still. You caress her slightly. You kiss her shoulder, her neck, once twice. Until she pulls away.

"Lemme sleep." She sighs into the pillow. You undo her bun gently.

You barely remember floating out the door, and then you're suddenly on a subway seat, headed to a friend's apartment.

You're almost drifting into sleep when the conductor starts mumbling.

It fills you with dread, for some reason

You don't know if what you did was right.

But you did, _something_.

On the rumbling seat, you decide that how to fall in love is the world's greatest kept secret.


End file.
